The Night I Had to Stay Calm (Even When I Wasn’t)

What an ER visit taught me about staying faithful

A trip to the ER reminded me that calm is sometimes the most faithful thing we can offer.

“The Lord is near the brokenhearted; he saves those crushed in spirit.”
— Psalm 34:18 (CSB)

Grayson, our youngest, was around two when he discovered his favorite indoor jungle gym: the heavy metal-legged table we had pushed against the hallway wall.
It wasn’t made for climbing. It was made for adult humans to put things on. It was purchased sans kids.
But try telling that to a toddler with zero fear and a complete disregard for physics.

We had warned him, several times actually, that if he kept crawling under it and weaving between the legs like a rodeo clown, he was going to get hurt.
You already know where this is going.

One evening after dinner, Karen was in the bedroom prepping for the next day. I was sitting on the couch, doing the important work of resting after dinner, when I noticed Grayson bee-lining toward his metal playground.

Then I heard it.

CLANK.

The noise was followed by a cry that I can only describe as one of those sirens in the old police movies. It starts out really soft, but then slowly gets louder and shriller.

I stood up, already preparing my best “I told you so” face complete with my hands on my hips. I saw Grayson grabbing his head and silent crying. You know? The kid looks like they are screaming really loud but are not making a sound.
And that’s when I spotted the blood.

I rushed down the hallway and found him holding his head. He had a small but deep slit just above his eye, right at the eyebrow. It was across the bone, and it wasn’t closing. I knew immediately: this kid was going to need some medical-grade attention.

I grabbed a towel from the kitchen, wrapped it around his head, and shouted, "Karen, I’m taking Grayson to the ER. Be right back!" She caught me before I could get the door.

Cue the "MY BABY! MY BABY!" alarm.
To her credit, Karen didn’t completely panic, mostly because I didn’t let her actually see the cut.
I was trying to keep one parent calm because if Mama and Daddy are calm, then the kids tend to “think” everything is calm, too.

So, Grayson and I loaded up and headed to the ER.

---

The Emergency Room on a random Tuesday night is its own kind of special.
While we were waiting, a shirtless man, who had clearly been given something strong enough to knock out a grizzly bear, decided that I was his new best friend. He sat down beside me. I was polite, but my body language and my face should have been obvious. He started playing 20 Questions with me about Grayson, about life, about his own multiple injuries (a broken collarbone for one) involving a four-wheeler and what I can only describe as creative decision-making.

Sir, I’m holding a bloody toddler. Please save your memoir for someone else.

Now, I’m a friendly guy.
But inside I was thinking, Sir, I’m holding a bloody toddler. Please save your memoir for someone else.

Finally, we were called back.
And if you’ve ever taken a kid to the ER, you know the routine:
Every person who walked in the room greeted me the same way:

"Oh, poor buddy. What happened here?"
"Oof. What’s the story, Dad?"
"How’d Little Man get banged up?"

The sarcastic part of me wanted to say a different answer each time,

"I'm sorry, but we can't talk about Fight Club."

“He messed around, and then he found out.”

“He said he could sled down the stairs on a cookie sheet. Then, I said, ‘I bet you can’t.’”

Instead, I stuck with the truth, even if it sounded a little less exciting.

---

Because of where the cut was, stitches weren’t a great option. They decided to glue it shut instead.

If you think toddlers are tough about stuff like that, let me tell you.

They are not.

It took three nurses to hold his arms and legs down, and I held his little head as still as I could.
Grayson stared up at me with those huge, tear-filled eyes, and I almost lost it.
I just kept whispering, "You're okay, buddy. Almost done." Lying is OK if it makes your kids feel better, right?

After three long hours, we were finally discharged.

We rolled back into the house like returning war heroes. Grayson went to bed, ugly gash and all, and woke up the next morning good as new. Like it never happened.

It’s funny how a clank and a little chaos can remind you how fiercely you love your kids. Parenting isn’t about preventing the fall. It’s about being who they look for when they hit the ground. It’s about being there when they fall, scooping them up, and making sure they know they’re never facing the scary stuff alone.
(Also, it’s about carrying an industrial-size pack of butterfly bandages. Trust me.)

---

Lately, I’ve been asking some of those same questions in quieter moments, just without the ER lighting and butterfly bandages.

Is this writing falling on deaf ears?
Am I making a difference?
Did this thing stall out when I wasn’t looking?

This whole writing journey didn’t start as a side hustle. It wasn’t even an idea for one. I just wanted to write. It was a hobby. A place to put thoughts and stories that wouldn’t sit still. And for a while, it felt like it was moving. Then it didn’t. Or at least, it felt that way.

Karen, in her steady, sees-the-whole-picture way, told me to keep on keeping on. To keep doing the work. If this was something I truly felt God was calling me to do, then He would show me the way. I’d just have to trust His timing. That part has never been my strength.

As I’ve gotten older, though, I’ve learned something important about God. He doesn’t usually walk us around the hard stuff. He walks with us straight through it. Storms are where the real lessons live. And in this uncertain season with writing, I’ve been asking God for what I call whispers, little nudges that say, You’re headed in the right direction.

Some days, though, I need a 2×4 to the face. Something a little less subtle. Something that gets my attention.

And the message has been consistent:
Just keep going. Be faithful.

That ER night reminded me why calm matters so much. With my kids, I have to show calm even when I’m absolutely not calm on the inside. I’ve heard them say it. I’ve heard Karen say it. “If Daddy is calm, then everything must be okay.”

That’s my job.

Kids don’t borrow our explanations. They borrow our calm.

I’m always planning. Always watching exits. When we sit down at a restaurant, I sit where I can see the front door. My kids know why. “Daddy wants to see if things ever go sideways.” I don’t want them panicking unless there’s a reason to panic. They make fun of me for it, but they also know not to sit in that chair.

I’m impatient by nature. I want answers now. Results now. Clarity now. But I also know this: God has never failed me. Not once. He always shows up and works through it, even when I can’t see how in the moment.

With God, I always have the majority.

That’s what I was doing in that ER room, holding Grayson’s head still, whispering reassurance I wasn’t fully sure I believed yet. Staying calm so he could stay calm. Trusting that we’d get through it, even if it was uncomfortable.

Maybe that’s parenting.
Maybe that’s faith.
And maybe that’s writing, too.

Just keep going. Be faithful. Stay present. And trust that calm, steady obedience still matters, even when the room is quiet.

---

Parenting isn’t for the faint of heart. Or for those who faint at the sight of bloody gashes.
It will test your nerves, your patience, and your ability to play "20 Questions" politely with strangers.
And let me tell you: taking the fourth kid to the ER feels very different than taking the first-born to the ER at around the same age.

But Brighton’s ER saga because that's exactly what it was…
That’s for another day.